


Relations

by Minimaliminal



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family Feels, Johnlock Fluff, Multi, Ned's dad was a major slut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimaliminal/pseuds/Minimaliminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned gets acquainted with his strange, estranged, British step-brother.</p><p>Sherlock finds perhaps the most perplexing puzzle he will ever encounter.</p><p>John just wanted a holiday that didn't involve dead things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-warning. My update schedule is very erratic. But I try to make the wait worth it.

It was a cold morning teetering on the edge of winter. The frost coated the still-green grass in a thin, delicate crust. People bustled about, bundled up in coats and scarves to get some early Christmas shopping done. All the coffee shops smelled of pumpkin spice and peppermint. And Ned loved it.

There was little the Piemaker disliked about the winter. The cold allowed him to bundle himself in a veritable fortress of layers (making the chances of accidental touching much smaller), people seemed so much kinder with their rosy cheeks and holiday wishes, and most importantly, his pies taste better in the winter. Or so the customers said. The truth as he knew it was quite different. Because of Ned’s gift, the fruit he served was always as fresh as if it were newly picked, even when nothing grows.

That morning was promising. A small breakfast crowd had accumulated from the Hole’s small but loyal fanbase and stray customers drawn in by the cold and the alluring smell of freshly baked fruit. Olive had her hands full with the taking of orders and the pleasing of customers. Charlotte, determined to make herself useful in any way possible, was juggling pie-slicing, coffee-serving and small-talk-making with the skill of a professional circus performer. Emerson was sorting through the obituaries, searching out possible murders over his morning cup of coffee and Ned was sitting across from him, taking a much-deserved breather after churning out enough pie to feed a small army.

“Anything interesting?” Ned asked between bites of a bacon and egg sandwich.

 Emerson frowned a little deeper in response.

“Y’know. The way things have been going, I’m not sure I’ll even need a murder this month.” Ned leaned a little closer, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “I think we might finally break even!”

“Don’t be getting your hopes up. I swear, we have this exact conversation every two months.” Emerson grumbled, mostly for his own benefit than Ned’s. As much as he hated to admit it, a good portion of his business relied on the Piemaker’s unique abilities. While he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he wanted The Pie Hole to continue to fail, he also couldn’t truthfully say that he was ready for it to succeed. “And chew with your mouth closed.”

“Sorry.” Ned attempted to say without opening his mouth.

It was then that a man burst into the cozy warmth of the pie hole, bringing the cold in with him like a specter. The collective heads of the entire room turned to catch a glimpse of the stranger. And he was indeed strange. He stood a little over six foot, which wouldn’t have been terribly unusual if it weren’t for the slim cut of his suit and the sharp angles of his face, all of which made his presence feel like a well-sharpened knife. He walked to an empty booth -which just so happened to be right behind Ned and Emerson- with a fluidity that made the simple action feel choreographed.

Olive materialized beside the booth in an instant. “Hi! Welcome to the Pie Hole. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. New to the area?”

“Coffee.” The man answered gruffly as he slipped his phone out of his pocket.

“Not a morning person, eh?” Olive chuckled, not fazed in the slightest. “I’m the same way. If anyone talks to me before my morning cup, well, there’s no telling what might happen to them.”

The man gave him a look, which conveyed that he was in fact considering what might happen to Olive, should she continue.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Make that two.” He added just as Olive turned away.

Emerson squinted at his paper. “Hmm… Here’s a good one. Suspected suicide.”

“What makes you suspect otherwise?” Ned asked from behind a napkin. He didn’t like digging up suspected suicides. They were much too complicated for the piemaker’s tastes. His job was hard enough without having to explain to the families that their dearly departed didn’t, in fact, depart of their own will. Then half the time they turn out to be actual suicides, which are downright depressing to talk to.

“He apparently did the ‘doing himself in’ deal with a hunting rifle.” Emerson grumbled.

“Yeah, doesn’t seem very likely.” Ned took a gulp of his coffee and began to slip out of the booth. “I better relieve Chuck before she faints from exhaustion.”

“Here you are, sir. Can I get you anything else to start your day off right?” Olive chirped cheerfully. She took pride in being able to wrench a decent tip out of even the stingiest scrooge.

“No thanks, pie doesn’t suit my tastes.” The customer answered briefly in a crisp British accent, his attention focused entirely on his phone.

“You… know this is The Pie Hole, right?”

Still, he had no intention to look up. “Yes, I can read.”

“And you walked in to The Pie Hole, knowing it serves pie, with no intention to eat pie. Are we on the same page?” Stinginess, Olive could tolerate. Mostly. But outright rudeness was another matter entirely and her temper was shorter than she was.

He snapped the retractable keyboard of his phone back into place and looked Olive straight in the eye. “Not quite. While I didn’t intend to gorge myself on sweets, I was planning on speaking with a Ned Nesbit, son of Norman Nesbit. Could you be so kind as to fetch him for me?”

Emerson blinked in confusion at the goings on in the booth next to them. Ned froze in his half standing position at the edge of his seat.

“You’re mistaken, then. I know a Ned, but I’m pretty sure his last name’s piemaker. The door is-“

Before Olive could banish him entirely, Ned swung out of his booth to face the stranger.

“Olive, it’s alright. I can handle this.” He mumbled to the waitress, waiting for her to leave before directly addressing the customer. “How do you know of my father?”

“You’re last name’s Nesbitt?” Emerson piped in from the sidelines. “Well that solves the mystery of the ages.”

“I can’t claim to know him personally, but I’ve been told by a fairly reliable source that he had an affair with my mother roughly nine months before I was born.” Sherlock replied with a surprising amount of suavity, given the subject. “The name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I do hope you turn out better than my other brother.”


	2. Two.

“No.” Said Ned. “Nononono. Absolutely not. No. I already have two step-brothers and that’s quite enough. So thank you for dropping by, but I’m going to have to ask you to-”

“Another step-brother? That’s wonderful!” Chuck beamed, her sparkling eyes peeking out from behind Ned’s shoulder. “Stay! Tell us all about yourself. When did you find out that you had step-brothers? Was it a sudden revelation or have you always known, and were just waiting for the right moment to reveal yourself.”

“Uhm.” Sherlock replied, seeming suddenly as paralyzed as Ned.

“I’m sorry. I’m going too fast, aren’t I? It’s just so exciting finding new family.” She said with an apologetic grin as she slipped into the other side of the bar. “So what do you do for a living?”

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock replied, more out of reflex than anything else. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Did I just hear that Sherlock Holmes, the English detective, is in the Pie Hole?” Emerson asked, peering out from over the top of his booth.

“You know him? Oh, does he have an international reputation?” Chuck’s eyes were as wide and round as whole pies. “Ned, your brother’s an internationally reputed consulting detective! How cool is that!”

“Oh, he’s internationally reputed, alright. For being a liar, a fraud and maybe even a criminal mastermind. I’m with Ned on this.” He grumbled, sinking back out of the conversation. Emerson Cod made a point of keeping up with all the latest news especially when it came to the detective business, so he knew that Sherlock had been cleared of all charges weeks before he reappeared. But that was British news. Hardly anyone in America gave enough of a damn to know and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them.

 

“I think it’d be in everyone’s best interest for you to leave.”

Sherlock did no such thing. “Are you forgetting that I am, in fact, a customer?”

“No. But I am the owner of this establishment and am… invoking my right to refusing service.” The guest’s stubborn confidence began to rattle Ned’s nerves. And there were few things he liked less than having his nerves rattled.

“You wouldn’t.” The detective replied as he texted under the table.

“I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do I’ll post the entire ordeal on yelp, which I have pulled up on my phone as we speak. And while this place warm, charming and exquisitely designed, I really don’t think it would survive an accusation of discrimination against the gay community.” Sherlock said, flashing his phone screen in his direction. Ned managed to catch the words ‘I’ve heard of these things happening in America, but I’d never imagined it’d happen to us’ before Sherlock snatched his phone back and poised his thumb over the post button.

Ned’s jaw dropped, his mind entirely devoid of responses, words or anything beyond a long, high-pitched mental scream. Finally, through all the shock and anger, he managed to put four words together. “…Are you even gay?”

And then the double doors slammed open. This was especially unusual as Ned, being particularly concerned about the well-being of his beloved restaurant’s paint job, installed an anti-slamming mechanism on them.

“William.” Ned watched as a small, neatly dressed middle aged man marched with conviction towards the booth where they were gathered.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock’s confidence wavered, if only a little.

“Scott.” The man made no acknowledgement of Ned or Chuck’s presence, but they moved out of his way all the same.

“Holmes.” He smiled as he saw Sherlock. But not happily.

Sherlock smiled back. But not happily. “I was wondering when you’d turn up, John. Coffee?”

John took the offer, sliding into the booth opposite to him. “Well maybe I’d have been here sooner if you’d told me where you were.”

“I left a note.”

“Yeah, under your pillow. And how the hell was I supposed to know what ‘pie hole’ meant? I thought you were taken and it was some kind of code!” He took a fretful gulp of his coffee.

“Well, if I’d put it on top of my pillow you’d have drooled all over it.”

John set his mug down gently. Frightfully gently. “That’s not the point. Sherlock. You disappeared again. You told me you wouldn’t. And you did.”

“I-…” Sherlock at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way.” He turned to Ned and Chuck, both of whom were attempting to find an opportunity to insert themselves back into the conversation. “What’s he done this time?”

“He-“ Ned started.

“He’s been rude to our waitress, threatened the livelihood of the pie hole and made everyone very uncomfortable is what he did this time. Now, I’d like to believe everyone deserves a second chance, but this has just gone too far and if you don’t leave now, we’ll have to take extreme measures.” Chuck said firmly, but clearly. She directed her attention to Sherlock. “And I’ll have you know that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of court law and am not afraid of suing your ass off for libel.”

“Thank you, Chuck.” Ned muttered, very proud and very slightly terrified.

“No problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, Olive’s drowning out there.” She put on her $20 tip smile as she ducked away from the table, swerving in a subtle circle away from Ned as she propped an empty tray on her hip.

“Well. You blew it, Sherlock. Let’s go before you manage to piss anyone else off.” John growled, kicking Sherlock lightly under the table. Despite this, Sherlock seemed lost in thought.

“Your girlfriend’s really something.” He muttered as he stood, staring blankly at the space Chuck used to take up. Ned bit out a quick ‘thanks’, thinking that ‘something’ didn’t mean anything good. “Could you perhaps tell me… why she smells of formaldehyde?”

Ned tried to concoct some lie about taxidermy or visits to morgues, but Sherlock was dragged out before he could suppress his eye twitch and spit it out.

“Think tall, dark and handsome knows about dead girl?” Emerson asked over the edge of his newspaper.

Ned didn’t ask about the nickname. Instead he watched and wondered as the pair walked down the frosted street through the circular windows. Sherlock said something to John, his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. John laughed and shook his head, bring a smirk to the detective’s eyes.

“No.” Ned breathed, swallowing back the sudden sensation of acid reflux. “No, he couldn’t possibly.”

“NED!” Olive cried from behind the bar. “We’re out of blackberry, blueberry, mixed berry and peach!”

 


	3. Three

Ned came in to work early the next morning. He was always the first one in the pie hole. He loved being the one to get the lights turned on and the ovens warmed up. It was an experience not entirely unlike waking up one’s child and getting them all dressed and ready for school. It was a chore, but it was his chore.

“Morning. Sleep well?” Ned whispered to the Pie Hole as he turned the first set of lights on. All of the switches were in the same place and he could’ve turned all the lights on at once, but he liked to do it gradually, with the rising of the sun. He unwrapped the striped scarf from his neck and hung it by the door but kept his coat on. It’s always pretty frosty before the ovens get going.

“Let’s get you warmed up first.” The piemaker set both ovens to 400 degrees and grabbed a broom to sweep up while the ovens pre-heated. It seemed that no matter how well Olive cleans up after closing, there’s always just a little too much dust when he comes in the next morning. It’s like how people wake up with grit in the corner of their eyes. Except, you know. On the floor of a restaurant.

He quickly worked his way through the restaurant, flicking on lights and setting up chairs at their respective tables as he went. He checked to make sure all of the sugar packet holders were holding the appropriate amount of sugar packets and the bottoms of the tables weren’t too encrusted in gum. All the while entirely oblivious to the man sitting at the bar in the center of the room quietly observing him.

Today, Ned was not the first one in the pie hole. He was beaten to it by one Sherlock Holmes who, just two hours before Ned, had picked the lock, went on a brief tour of the space, took a seat at the bar and proceeded to do nothing until Ned had just about finished his brief sweep of the restaurant. At which point, he said the following.

“Autism.”

Ned half-jumped out of his skin as one does when one finds a spider crawling up one’s nose, effectively throwing an entire restaurant’s worth of dust directly onto his clothing. Once he finished sneezing and sputtering, he exclaimed “Wha- what the hell?”

“This place gave it away. In a word, it's perfect. The location, the design, the color scheme. The lamps are shaped like cherries for Christ’s sake. And yet, it’s losing money. There’s nothing wrong with your business model. Judging from the rush this morning and the chatter on the street, this place is well-loved by just about the entire town. The reason you’re still losing money is that you’ve put yourself into a massive amount of debt to make this place. Everything in here is specially designed to suit your idea of perfection and it wasn’t cheap. The only way to actually make money is to become a major franchise on the level of McDonalds. But the debt is worth it because being here, making pie surrounded by pies under a perfectly symmetrical crust shaped roof, is the only way you feel safe. And I've threatened to take that away from you.” It was an apology, of sorts. Sherlock hadn’t used any specific words that would traditionally be used in an apology, such as ‘sorry’ or ‘regret’ or ‘apologize’. But they were implied. “I’ve… spent so long under attack. It seems I have forgotten when not to fight back.”

Ned sighed, shaking the dust from his hair and clothes and re-sweeping it up. “You know, accusing someone of being autistic isn’t exactly the best way to apologize.”

Sherlock smirked. He took the fact that he wasn’t being thrown out by the ear to be a good sign. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t do it very often. Last time I tried, John punched me.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Ned mumbled as he emptied the dustpan into the trash bin. From the feel of the room and the fact that his coat was getting just a little too cozy for comfort, it seemed that the ovens had finally warmed. So he made his way back to the kitchen. He quickly ducked into the locked storage room of rotten fruit, quickly un-rotted enough of that fruit to make a few blueberry pies and brought it out trying to act as if it were never rotten in the first place. It was easy by now. He had practice. But the detective’s presence made it… uncomfortable.

Both of them said very little and thought very much for a very long time. Ned thought with his hands, stirring and stabbing at his mixing bowl with a wooden spoon until his apron was speckled with bits of blueberry. Sherlock thought with his eyes, picking apart Ned’s actions like a thousand tiny letter openers. Copying down Ned’s actions and underlining some bits in red and crossing out other bits in black. Finally, Ned shoved the bowl out of the way and Sherlock paused in his note-taking.

“Exactly how many of us are there anyway?” Ned said, thoughts tumbling out of his mouth like credit card statements from an overstuffed envelope. “If you know about me, then you must know about the twins. Do you have some sort of list somewhere of lives our father abandoned? Are you planning on starting a club? Arranging a broken family reunion? Or union. Since you can’t have a _re_ union of people who’ve never known each other.”

Sherlock watched quietly as Ned ran a gloved through his hair in frustration, ripped off his compromised gloves with compounded frustration, washed his hands and pulled on a new pair. He found the sight very familiar. To what, he wasn’t entirely sure. Possibly John’s tendency to drink when cross. Or Lestrade’s angry tabacco chewing habit. Or Mycroft’s fury binges. It was then that Sherlock realized, not for the first time, that he made quite a few people very angry quite often indeed.

“23.” Sherlock stated simply. “But I never gave much thought to any of the others. Except for Lidiya in Russia, but only in a professional capacity. She had quite a prolific career as a pedigree cat burglar.”

Ned gaped with one hand half-way into a jar of flour. “TWENTY THREE?”

“To be fair, he did make several donations to the local sperm bank.”

“He left you for me, me for the Maurice and Ralston then left them for a dozen or so other children. Is he trying to out-do Genghis Khan?” He grunted to his dough as he kneaded it out.

“Possibly. I never speculated on it.”

Ned stepped back from his thoroughly kneaded dough and took a breather. “So why are you here? Because if you’re trying to track him down, I know nothing. Less that nothing. Everything I think I know is probably a lie, so asking me anything will obstruct our investigation.”

“Hah. He was never my father. More of a sperm donor. All I know about him is that I had his eyebrows before they burnt off.” Sherlock sighed, leaning back on his stool. “London is in an uproar. There have been people harassing us every hour in the day, trying to find out ‘how I did it’. I can handle a few prying tabloids, but then they started pestering John and he deserves a little peace. We needed someplace quiet to lie low until all of this blows over and well… I’m told people fall back on family in times like these.”

It was then that the door swung open, causing Ned to jump half out of his skin. The first one through the door was a Digby, who barked gleefully at his owner from a polite distance before trotting away to meet the new person in the room. Olive followed after, chirping a cheerful ‘Hi there!’ from a thoroughly impolite closeness. Ned grinned awkwardly and took a half step back.

“Oh hello there!” Sherlock cooed at the wet nose, poking curiously at this ankle. He immediately hopped off the stool and onto the floor to properly introduce himself to the golden retriever. “You’re a handsome old fellow aren’t you? Yes, you are!”

At the sound of a third person in the unopened shop, Olive disengaged from Ned and leaned over the bar to get a look at the man, identifying him immediately to be the son of a bitch they threw out yesterday. “Isn’t that the son of a bitch we threw out yesterday?”

“Uh, yes. But he’s fine. He’s… he's my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s my personal headcannon that all of pushing daisies is from Ned’s point of view and Ned is autistic. It gives a deeper context to the eye-searing color scheme, frankly ridiculous amount of alliteration and repetition, all the symmetry, Ned’s pie fixation and the aversion to touch. For me anyways.
> 
> Whether or not Ned is actually autistic isn’t really discussed in this fic, but either way I do feel like Sherlock would deduce him as such.


	4. Four

jJohn walked into the bright, warm Pie Hole still half asleep. The sun had barely begun to rise and the air was practically solid outside, it was so cold. The inside of the snug little restaurant felt just as lovely as being tucked into a soft, thick dough, slid gently into a pre-heated oven and allowed to bake until golden brown. He took a seat at the bar and unwrapped a few of his layers of clothing, letting the heat seep into his muscles. He rubbed his stiff hands together and ordered coffee from the squeaky little waitress with rather loud breasts.

The room was practically empty. There was a nurse having his first cup of coffee before work, an old man with nothing to do but watch the world go by over a slice of pie, the waitress making his coffee rather aggressively and the couple in the kitchen, exchanging flirtatious glances as they worked but… not flirtatious touches. But… despite the text he’d gotten that morning, which consisted solely of a pie emoji and a dog emoji, Sherlock wasn’t here. Maybe he was at a dog park… Or a busting a restaurant that serves dog pie…

“Here’s your coffee, cutie.” The waitress set the cup down just a bit too hard, but smiled brightly all the same. John resisted the urge to smile back. Flirting with waitresses was as automatic as breathing, but Sherlock didn’t appreciate it. He tried to hide it, but John could always tell.

“Thanks. Before you go, did you see this man this morning?” John asked, holding out his phone which displayed a photo of Sherlock rolling his eyes at the camera as its lock screen. He found it was most helpful as a sort of ‘lost’ poster. It was probably the man’s most recognizable facial expression.

“Oh yeah, tall, dark and… noisome. He’s passed out in the booth over there.” Her smile dropped off her face like a penny off the empire state building the second she saw the photo. So it was definitely him. John turned to the booth and sure enough, there was dark figure curled under the shadow of the table.

“Great. Thanks. I’d also like to order the uh… plum pie? The whole pie, not a slice. And bring it to that booth.” John picked up his coffee and prepared to relocate. “And… sorry. For whatever he did this time.”

Olive smirked and waved him off. “It’s perfectly fine. This time he just chased Digby around and rambled about… decomposition or something. That pie will be right up.”

Sherlock’s sleeping habits had been strange lately, to say the very least. Well, a different kind of strange than usual He seemed unable to sleep in a bed at normal hours and instead got into the habit of wandering the city until he passed out on a park bench or the bathroom of a Cafe or on the tube. Usually on the tube. He might’ve actually got on the tube just to sleep. John knew it was something to do with whatever happened in the year he was presumed to be dead but he dare not ask.

Sherlock claimed it was something to with noise. Bedrooms were too quiet, even in London. John tried a variety or white noise machines, mobile apps and youtube channels but apparently it was too dimensional or the loop was too obvious. But at least they were in a small town now. Easier to track him down.

“Sherlock.” John prodded his shoulder to check exactly how asleep he was. Apparently, very asleep. He picked up the great detective’s head and slid his bunched up scarf under it. Purely a preventative measure. If John let him sleep with his neck at that angle, he’d have to deal with the man’s complaints about the crick in his neck for the rest of the day.

He took a seat on the other side of the table and sipped at his coffee while he scrolled through a list of things to do in this… quaint little town. He was all for having a relaxing holiday, but if he had to spend another day watching parks and rec in the hotel room he might actually go mad. As he was scrolling through the sixth google page, Sherlock snorted under the table.

“Wakey Wakey Sherly.” John mumbled, just loud enough for the man to hear him. A curly head popped over the edge of the table, staring blearily at his surroundings.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” Sherlock grumbled hoarsely as he pulled himself into an upright position. “You slept well.”

“I’d sleep better if I knew where in the city I’d find you in the morning. But yeah, I slept alright. What was with that message you left me?”

“Pie. For pie hole. The only pie exclusive restaurant in the city. I thought the message was pretty clear.” Sherlock explained, propping his socked feet up on John’s knee as he drank deeply from John’s coffee.

“I meant the dog.”

“Oh, Ned has a dog. His name is Digby.” Sherlock passed the coffee back across the table, making a face at the bitterness. “You didn’t put sugar in it.”

“It’s my coffee and I don’t like sugar.”

“Coffee is better with sugar and that is an objective fact.” Sherlock announced with a haughty sniff. John rolled his eyes. He was going to be like this all day. It’s strange how when he doesn’t have cases to show off how much smarter he is than everyone else, it’ll boil over into the rest of his life. “You see, it has to do with the molecular structure of the-“

“Fresh plum pie, all ready to go! My name’s olive in case you need anything.” The waitress interrupted, setting a box on the table.

John gasped with relief. “Oh, you are a blessing. Thank you. Could I get two forks before you go?”

“Oh… ok. That’s a lot of pie, for two-“

Sherlock cut in “One fork. I don’t like pie.”

John smiled threateningly, eyes still locked on olive, though he was obviously speaking to Sherlock. “Two forks. In case I drop one.”

“You have excellent reflexes, you haven’t dropped a fork in three years. On accident, anyways.” He countered, with an infuriatingly cheeky smirk.

“I plan on eating it.” He ground out through gritted teeth. “With both hands.”

Olive looked a bit petrified. An innocent caught in a battle she could never understand. She blinked.

“Uhhh…. I’ll bring you two forks and you can decide what you’d like to do with the second.” She smiled out of fear and skittered away.

Thankfully, the pair were in the middle of a staring contest when Olive dropped off the forks, allowing her to leave the area quickly and quietly.

“You’re not making me eat that.” Sherlock declared, pursing his lips as though John was about to launch himself across the table and attack him with pastry.

John shrugged and opened the box.

“I don’t plan to.” He broke the lovely, flaky crust with his fork and cutting himself a slice, removing the lid of the wooden box to be use as a plate. “That smells lovely.”

Sherlock put quite a bit of effort into pretending that he wasn’t listening, couldn’t see anything, was entirely unable to smell and actually existed on a different plane of existence as he scrolled through facebook on his phone. John smirked and took a bite, leaving the other fork at the middle of the table.

As the flavor hit his tongue, he moaned. He had planned to make some yummy sounds as he ate, just to annoy Sherlock, but god he didn’t realize the pie would be so good as to make him do it involuntarily. If love was a taste, this pie would be it. It was like a warm bath in his mouth, loosening the tension in his muscles and soothing old pains. He bit into a chunk of plum and it was like he’d never tasted a plum before. It was sweet and juicy, but with the slightest sharp edge, like Sherlock’s “I just solved a case” grin. There were no fancy twists, no secret spices or experimental flavor combinations or hints of anything, it was just a Damn Fine Pie. John felt dizzy.

“Dear god, man. You’re less noisy in bed.” Sherlock stared, appalled. John opened his eyes in surprise, not realizing what he’d done.

He swallowed the bite, almost unwilling to let go of it despite having the rest of the pie in front of him. “You have to try this. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. It seemed to be a simple plum pie like every other one he’d ever seen. “Given up your more subtle tactics then?”

“Sherlock, I’m serious. Just one bite. It’s so good.” John said as he chewed the next bite, shamelessly chewing with his mouth open. Sherlock conceded, curiosity getting the better of him. He took the other fork and cut off just the smallest sliver of pie he could manage. The second it touched his tongue, his eyes doubled in size. He promptly took the box in which held the rest of the pie and dug in. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Sherlock was too busy eating to answer.

___

In the kitchen, a pie maker, a dead girl and a waitress spied on their customers. Specifically the pair at the booth fighting over a plum pie that was meant to feed five people.

“Think I should go over there?” Ned asked, conflicted.

Chuck frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so.”

For once, his gut and Chuck were saying the same thing. But for once, he wasn’t sure if he agreed. “He did apologize, though.”

“It doesn’t matter what you two talked about today, it doesn’t excuse his behavior yesterday.” Chuck reasoned reasonably.

Olive shrugged. “They’re… weird. But Digby likes him. Surely if he were evil or something, Digby would know.” It wasn’t the soundest logic in the world, but it was something. “And something about them reminds me of Jerry and Buster.”

“So probably not evil and reminds you of some really nice runaway criminals you know… that’s not entirely reassuring.” Ned was as conflicted as ever. He might even need a lozenge. “I can’t say I’m not curious, though. He claimed to have no affiliation with my- uh… our father and no interest in our other siblings. So, if it does go badly, at least I won’t be caught in much complicated family drama. Just one strange man who I didn’t know existed before now, making it easy to pretend he never did.”

“If anything, that makes it creepier. Why would he come all the way here just to see you? No offense, Ned. You’re grand, like the canyon. In my opinion, everyone should come see you at least once in their lives but why would _he_ want to see you out of all of your father’s children? Does he… know something?” Chuck paused poignantly. The very possibility that she was onto something with that line of thought gave Ned goosebumps and cold sweats. Goosesweats.

His gut said to run, as fast as he could in the vague direction of the sea. He fought it. “All the more reason to talk to him. I need to know what he knows and once we know for sure that he knows something, we can come up with a plan to make him… not know.”

“Know? Know what?” Olive asked, tugging on a single fiber of a tangled yarn ball of a conversation they’ve been refusing to have for years.

Ned grunted, suppressed an eye twitch before deciding not to lie…. “About Chuck.” Much, anyways.

“Oh….” Olive nodded, understanding for just half a second before her subconscious realized there was more to this thread of conversation than she knew. “Why would he care about Chuck?”

Ned unstuck his shoes from the patch of cherry filling he didn’t realize he was standing in and marched across the kitchen. “I’m talking to him. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll just throw him out.”


End file.
